Array ( [sid] => 182699 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Baton Weavers All [time] => 2016-03-01 19:54:21 [hometext] => The sum of our parts compose God/'/s symphony [bodytext] => My finger- pressing, interrogating lower fleshy lip,
pushing pressuring for answer, though of the mouth, one lip alone can/'/t give.

My brown round eyes- sightless to mundane touchable things;
gazing, fixed on ideas in birth flowing in vitro on conceptual seas-
this sight beyond vision brings me, without blink, in my mind, to my knees.

My ears- unwanted shipwrecks crash up my canals; misery, joy, truth, lies.
Oh scoundrels! You cartilage agents in flappy disguise,
you raw data passers of the world to my mind.

I/'/m composed of stretchy pokable breakable parts-
vital, yes; engineered, and redundantly so
though nonetheless pawns, backbenchers all-
support staff in service to the Big Show.

Cerebrally wired to toil and toll, unceasing streaming of
unfiltered data my brain collates precisely, this way or that;
an endless demand to crunch sensory input,
my brain (as my finger) aught but a tool- thus my mind/'/s mindless goal
obeys without question commands from my soul.

Swells life music to in on over us all- so precious the baton you wield and hold.

[comments] => 4 [counter] => 319 [topic] => 30 [informant] => Invierno [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => PoemsonBeauty ) Your Poetry Dot Com - Baton Weavers All


Baton Weavers All
Date: Tuesday, 1st March 2016 @ 07:54:21 PM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: Invierno
My finger- pressing, interrogating lower fleshy lip,
pushing pressuring for answer, though of the mouth, one lip alone can/'/t give.

My brown round eyes- sightless to mundane touchable things;
gazing, fixed on ideas in birth flowing in vitro on conceptual seas-
this sight beyond vision brings me, without blink, in my mind, to my knees.

My ears- unwanted shipwrecks crash up my canals; misery, joy, truth, lies.
Oh scoundrels! You cartilage agents in flappy disguise,
you raw data passers of the world to my mind.

I/'/m composed of stretchy pokable breakable parts-
vital, yes; engineered, and redundantly so
though nonetheless pawns, backbenchers all-
support staff in service to the Big Show.

Cerebrally wired to toil and toll, unceasing streaming of
unfiltered data my brain collates precisely, this way or that;
an endless demand to crunch sensory input,
my brain (as my finger) aught but a tool- thus my mind/'/s mindless goal
obeys without question commands from my soul.

Swells life music to in on over us all- so precious the baton you wield and hold.



This poem is Copyright © Invierno


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